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 he carried himself, through all these preparations, with the air of a man who has taken his decision and is resolved to act on it without further thought.

Conroy's cheque came in the morning mail. And they were ready—all but Pittsey. He was waiting for word from his brother, who, it seemed, was an actor of uncertain address, generally written to "in care" of a dramatic paper because he was more often "on the road" than in New York. Pittsey had mailed his letter Saturday morning; he should have a reply on Tuesday; in any case they would wait no later than Tuesday morning. Conroy hurried to the bank to cash his cheque, and Don accompanied him part of the way, going to sell his books to a second-hand dealer. They agreed to meet again at the railroad offices to buy their tickets.

But the first dealer to whom Don offered his volumes haggled interminably over the purchase, offering so little for them that Don refused to sell them and carried them to a second dealer who would give less than the first. They were finally sold at such a loss that Don felt too poor to pay his street-car fare to the ticket office, and he walked, ruefully fingering the few silver coins in the pocket of his trousers and despising the commercial world that made second-hand book-dealers what they were. Half way to their rendezvous, Conroy hailed him from the rear platform of a passing street-car, beckoning him warningly to turn back, his face as ghastly as if he were waving a red flag to save a railway train from destruction. Don ran after the car, alarmed, and saw Conroy alighting at a street corner.